Hidden Waters by Theresa C. Gaynord

On the road there are stairs, twisted like a rope.

Cottonwood kicks up yellow dust interrupting

the breath that scrapes the surface of air with icy

trails, wheezing in circles, barely high enough

for anyone to take notice.

There’s an old Chevrolet with dangling exhaust

pipe, rattling out fumes as it lurches forward with

reluctance, playing it safe between the narrow

arches of towering mountain ranges that hover

over blue-green light,

displaying the mischief of the canyon. I reach out

with hesitation, afraid to let the westerly light breeze

touch my face before it shifts to the south. Black

Stetson and sunglasses guard against the sting as the

violent thrashing of windblown

sands offer solitude before nightfall. There’s darkness

that remains in the memory of it all, momentary

infatuation that cynically interrupts with weakness;

but I’ll take the shadows of fragrant sage over the

patches of hypocritical sunlight shaking

a wagging judgmental finger at the mesa of my spirit.

To me, the precipice isn’t so steep. Fluidity

and commodity rest buried beneath the edges of sacred

Earth. In the grand vision I want to walk through

twisting paths, absorbed by endless

space where there are no signs of printed words, just

hidden waters that remain undisturbed inside old ruins

grafted to the mount by mythical beasts, ancient

superstitions and God's forgiveness. I want to excavate

the land with my eyes, resting my hands in the cool waters,

long gone and best forgotten.

Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of-body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines throughout the years.